I can’t even tell you.

My dick is in the dirt.

Anyway.

I’ve got a poem for you all but I can’t finish it. I’ve only been working on it for four months. It’s about a corn dog. In the Fall.

If you want to help, send cash and pills. Xanax, percocet………

Starbuck’s cards. Pretty good sandwiches if you stop by the 7-11 for packets of condiments.

I’ll bet this economy will see the disappearance of the mayonnaise packet. It’s so fancy and such a luxury. I adore it, being able to squirt the right amount on each bite.

The only mayo in a jar is Best Foods (Hellmanns), the only mayo in a squueze jar is Best Foods (Hellmanns), but the best mayo ever is only available in attractively packaged silver fuselages from Heinz. You can take as many as you like from the 7-11.

Or so I thought.

After I made my purchase tonight, I went back over and scooped a wad of Heinz mayo envelopes into my ridiculous purse sized plastic bag. It’s always this tag team of Middle Eastern, South East Asian and Latino clerks. So the indian guy follows me out after I scoop this kinda fearless wad of mayo into my purse.

I turn and stare him up about ten feet down the way.

I spend money there almost everyday.

It’s clear it’s nonconfrontational, but then I realize there’s no cigarettes in my pale plastic purse. It was a pretty warm night.

Symmetry. Phase in motion and a pretty sound lock.

The man who would confront me, he gave me the look, sees me walk back in with my receipt straight to his station. I reach over his register and flick him hard on his nose. Then I bitch slap him and begin smashing things.

Just kidding. Not really. I did show him the receipt though. He was all cool and acquiescent. Gave me my smokes. I gave him knuckles. We parted friends. It’s advantageous to be on the good side of your local grocer.

It’s really bad out there and pretty bad in here.

Both men and women have a taint you know. The area between your starfish and your gonads. Other than that, we have very little in common. Things like a fondness for a certain kind of cookie or Kung Fu movies don’t really count. Stay away from women that like Kung Fu movies or women that go nuts for ultimate fighting. There’s a chance they’re not women at all. They are most likely broads.

“And I see lonely ships upon the water
Better save the women and children first
Sail away with someone’s daughter
Better save the women and children first

I hear music on the landin’ an’ there’s laughter in the air
Just could be your boat is comin’ in
Yeah you’re leanin’ back an’ yeah, a foot tappin’
Ain’t got your head right
There’s a full moon out tonight. Baby, let’s begin

And she said “Could this be magic? Or could this be love?” Uh, oh
An’ I said “Could this turn tragic? You know that magic often does” -Van Halen

Another thing, I loathe the tit tattoo. Why introduce graffiti onto an otherwise lovely decolletage? Stupid. Misguided.

I’m just one guy, but if you have creamy cleavage or nice shoulders, no need to distract me from that loveliness.

When I see people with tattood faces I can’t help but wonder what happens if they lose their job.

There was a time when ink meant something. Now it’s just an indication that you were a pussy in high school.

People try awfully hard to belong to something. Anything.

I gotta tell ya, I’m not a big beer drinker but I’m addicted to these “Cheladas”. Budweiser and Clamato. Genius. Really. I do wish they came in a smaller can. 16 oz. is just too much for me. Maybe with sushi. Or pizza.

I myself wish to distinguish myself as a writer. See, in my own mind, I think I’m a bit of a genius. That may not be true but the the idea of it has served me well so far. I understand that at the very least, I’m not stupid. At the end of the day, that works for me.

I mean, as long as I’m not a member of the great unwashed.

It has become a tragedy to those who feel and to those who think. The world’s collective consciousness teeters on the brink of a third world war. Einstien said he couldn’t guess at the weapons for such a war, but the fourth world war would be fought with sticks and stones.

I understand he was a pretty bright guy.

Maybe Joe The Plumber will hook it all up. What a douchebag. This guy has no humility. You can bet I’ll be tuning in to the Pajama network or whoever hired his dumb ass. I’m anticipating red asphalt and carnage at the end of a bloody smear. Gore and eggs, weird shaped pasta, some teeth and some hair. Bones, thrombus, the gore and detritus of a dipshit’s consanguinity.

Why does this piss me off so much?

It’s because he’s such an all American jackass. He asked a hypothetical question and ended up being the straight man for an out of context soundbite that McCain ground his knuckles against while attempting to make it an issue. Sam Wurzelbacher landed on the stage without a single goddamn idea in his head and now some of you still care what he thinks.

That’s my problem. Until Americans can take fifteen seconds to estimate the measure of someone like Joe The Plumber, and decide he’s not worth of anyone’s attention, and as a reult of our apathy he fades, until then, we suck.

We are just under 45 degrees out.

I’m still flirting with 90.

Drinks for my friends.